


Lilac Sky

by hookedonsunshine



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: 90's Interrailing AU, Europe, F/M, Now With Pictures!, Travel, basically is Marinette on a journey, because 90's, she's gonna go and MEET PEOPLE and EXPLORE and won't have INTERNET
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-04 04:22:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15833661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hookedonsunshine/pseuds/hookedonsunshine
Summary: Marinette Dupain-Cheng is pretty sure she peaked in high school.Once, she dreamed of being a famous designer. Now, she's more realistic.Her friends have something to say about that.Or, Marinette is sent backpacking through Europe for a month in Alya's version of an intervention, and meets a mysterious (and very cute) model, who just keeps reappearing.





	1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

 

* * *

 

**Paris  - 25/07/1995**

****

Marinette was used to boredom. Ever since she had left school her life had been one long, monotonous stream of days blurring into months, blurring into the last two years of her life. Nothing had changed since she was eighteen – her part-time job at her parent’s bakery had become full time, along with a side job in a nearby department store; her struggle to sell her designs from a small catalogue she regularly circulated around the neighbourhood remained just that – a struggle.

Her plan had been so different; her catalogue should have taken off and become a viable source of income, or she should have been accepted to one of the dozen design internships she’d eagerly put herself forward for, or she should have gone to college and gained a qualification in _anything,_ just to perk up her résumé. But money had been the limiting factor – it always was.

The bakery did well, especially considering its highly-localised clientele, but rent anywhere in France wasn’t cheap. She hadn’t been accepted into any of the universities she’d applied to in Paris, and she adamantly refused to move out of the city under any circumstance. At the time, she had claimed there was no point in going to study something else either. If she couldn’t study _fashion,_  then she would be better off working on her own to establish herself in the industry.

Eighteen-year-olds were very idealistic. 

Marinette missed that.

Nowadays, she mostly just applied for any job which she thought she was qualified for. Two years working in a bakery had left her with a wealth of experience in food preparation and customer service. It was a shame her goal wasn’t the restaurant industry, because she was well on her way to becoming a veritable authority in all things bread related. But she was so _sick_ of baking by this point.

She worked and worked and worked. All the time she would have once spent on her designs, she spent in the bakery, or at the department store, or with her best friend of twenty years. And that was it. Wake up, work, sleep, repeat.

Yes, Marinette was _very_ used to boredom by now.

Yet, she had never been quite so bored as she was in this precise moment, standing in the thirty-degree heat, feeling sweat drip down her neck, as she stood where she had been standing for the last forty-two minutes and twenty-one seconds.

“Alya, I really don’t think this is worth the wait.”

“Trust me on this Mari, André’s is _legendary._ ” Alya spoke without even turning to acknowledge Marinette’s protests, instead choosing to press half of her face against the window along with most of her torso.

“But…” 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, you have been protesting for the last forty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, believe me when I say there are no words you could possibly utter right now which can dissuade me.”

“I don’t think this journalism thing is good for you.”

“My etymological choices are as multifaceted as they have ever been.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Marinette rolled her eyes, laughing. While Marinette had spent two years stagnating, Alya had instead thrown herself all into university life, acting as badminton captain one year, self-publishing a cutting exposé on a small fascist student group which had sprung up out of nowhere the next, and through this earning herself a position as editor-in-chief of the student newspaper. As a result, she had made it her personal goal before her duties began this upcoming autumn to improve her reporting skills, and apparently, memorise an entire thesaurus in the process.

“True, but when I do it so well, how can you complain?” Alya attempted to nudge Marinette in the ribs jokingly, but her current position pressed against the window meant it was more a vague gesturing of her elbow into the general vicinity of the space behind her. Marinette appreciated it all the same.

“You _do_ have piercing repartee.” Marinette shot back.

“You do listen to me!” Alya squealed, laughing. Before half falling through the door and landing on a very shocked looking André. “André! I thought you’d never open!”

“Alya, I open at the same time every day, always ten AM sharp.” His brow was furrowed. “You come here every day, nearly, did you not know this?”

“You said it was random when he chose to open!” Marinette exclaimed.

“Well, _maybe_ I just wanted to spend some time with my workaholic best friend, and _maybe_ it’s become increasingly difficult to drag her out of the house recently.”

“…Okay, maybe. But couldn’t we have just gone for coffee or something instead of waiting in the heat for forty-five minutes and twelve seconds?” 

Alya was silent. “Maybe.”

“That didn’t occur to you, did it.” 

“Maybe. But there’s no use dwelling on maybe’s, do you know what _will be_ right now?”

“I’m going to go with, ‘what is ice cream?’”

“Ding ding ding, absolutely correct! And for that, you can get any scoop you like, on me.”

“I accept your delicious apology. But can we _please_ go into the shop now?” She stared wistfully at the fan on the counter, insufficient to counter the overbearing heat, but a welcome relief all the same. 

“Maybe.” Alya winked, before pushing past the bemused André and settling down at the bench in the back-left corner of the shop.

Marinette followed her friend, pausing to grimace apologetically at André, Alya apparently having forgotten that Marinette had never met the man before this precise instant. “Hi, I’m Marinette.”

“Of course, of course, the baker girl!”

Marinette gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, I guess that’s me.”

“I’ll serve up something perfect for you, just you wait." 

“Thanks. How much will that be?”

“Oh no, a friend of Alya’s is a friend of mine. Alya will only pay for her own ice cream today.” 

“Hey! How come Mari gets hers for free?” Alya spoke indignantly.

“Because Marinette here has been waiting in the sun for nearly an hour through no fault of her own, whereas if I gave you free food every time you did something silly like that I would no longer be able to afford to serve anything at all.”

Marinette’s laugh rang more genuine this time, and she moved over to join her friend in the corner.

“He raises a good point,” Alya said conspiratorially. “I do come here a _lot._ ”

“Yeah? How’d you find this place?”

“Well apparently, _everyone_ on the paper loves André’s, they introduced me a few months ago. I’ve been coming a lot with the old editor to handle the changeover, learn the ropes, that kind of thing.”

“Right, of course.” Marinette ignored the pang in her chest as she realised that every year, Alya had been making more friends, preparing for when she inevitably became a bigshot journalist after her graduation this year. She probably only had a year left with Alya before her friend moved on to bigger and better things than her old high school friend, stuck in her parents’ bakery. She pushed the thought aside.

“So, how have you been? Looking forward to your trip?” Alya was heading off to inter-rail next week for a full month, planning to travel on her own and see the world a little before she settled down to seriously focus on her final year of university. Marinette had been invited last year when Alya began planning the trip, but back then all her spare money had been channelled into buying threads, appliqués, and other materials for her catalogue designs. Marinette couldn’t remember when she had last bought so much as a bolt of fabric anymore – she hadn’t had any new orders in months, and had given up working on new designs when there was so little interest in the work which she had been pouring her heart and soul into for years. Now, she had plenty of money spare. 

“Well, actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Alya looked uncharacteristically serious, and Marinette found herself overwhelmed with worry.

“Is everything okay? You’re alright, right?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine! It’s just… the paper has offered me this brilliant opportunity to take a gap year, and work in the US doing some reporting from Harvard on the state of US politics.”

“Oh.” 

“It’s actually really fantastic, I wouldn’t be able to work as the editor on the paper this year, but they say they’ll hold it for me for next year. Plus, this is an amazing opportunity to get a foothold in international journalism.”

“So, I guess you’re going to take it then?” 

“Yeah, I think so.”

“That’s great! I’m really happy for you! I know how hard you’ve been working to get this kind of recognition.” Marinette forced as genuine a smile as she could muster onto her face. It was true, she was happy for Alya. Her best friend had been so dedicated to her work over the last couple of years, and she knew how excited Alya must be for this kind of opportunity. It was just hard to escape the feeling that she was losing her, and even more quickly than she had anticipated it would happen. Of all her friends from school, Alya was the only one she was still regularly in touch with. Without her, she felt like she was losing that part of herself, and settling even deeper into the lot life had assigned to her.

“Do you remember back in school? When Nathaniel lost that art competition?”

“The landscape one? Yeah, of course, he was really upset about it.” She reminisced. 

“Do you remember what you said to him?”

“I think I just comforted him that better opportunities would come along?”

 “You’ve just got to keep painting. Keep drawing. Keep doing what you’re good at. And one day, people will see what we already know – that you’re an incredible artist. And until then, just remember, we’ll always be your fans.” Alya fixed her with a pointed look. “Do you remember _that_ Mari?” 

“Yeah, and then Nathaniel spent a year secretly in love with me!”

“True, but it was still good advice. I think everyone in class remembers that speech.” Marinette felt a tear come to her eye, before flinching as Alya suddenly straightened her posture and yelled. “So why the _hell_ did I wake up today to find you’ve stopped releasing your monthly catalogue around the neighbourhood, from my _mother_ no less!” 

“I just didn’t see the point in paying to print them anymore, it’s been months since I even had an order.” She laughed bitterly. “I think it’s just time that I gave up on this fashion stuff, it’s a pipe dream anyway, you know? I’ve got a good thing going at the bakery, Lovell’s is still keeping me working in the café because apparently, my skills are better utilised there. I only took that job in an attempt to gain some experience in fashion retail, and all that happened is I’m doing the exact same thing as I do in the bakery, for less money! It’s been two years, and if anything, I’m further from being a serious designer than I was when I left school! I think it’s time I gave up on design and focused on what I’m apparently already on the path to succeeding in. Did you know they offered me a promotion at the store? I could work full-time as a manager in the café for a pay increase, get my own place, and just accept that this is my career now.” She huffed, catching her breath before continuing with her tirade. “I just don’t see the _point_ in working myself to the bone for _nothing._ ”

Alya simply sat quietly, watching as Marinette half sobbed in front of her. She said nothing for a long while. Marinette stopped her hysteria, and also, gradually, grew quiet.

Several minutes passed, during which, André bought them their ice creams, shuffling away as quickly as possible upon sensing the tense atmosphere between the two girls.

Eventually, Marinette spoke once more. “Alya… I’m sorry. I really did try you know.” 

“So, you’re going to take the department store job?”

“I think it’s a good idea. It’ll pay well, better than working there part time at least, and better than the bakery. Plus, it’s a managerial position. I could focus on baking and cooking, hone that as a skill, I’m pretty good at it by now!” She smiled in a way which she hoped came across as reassuring.

“Okay. I don’t want to presume to know what’s best for you.”

“Fashion was just a dream Alya. I’ve given it a go, but it’s been two years now, and I don’t want to work at my parent’s bakery forever. I think it’s time I moved onto something new.” 

“Can you just promise me something?”

“Sure! Actually, let me know what first? I don’t want to agree to another doughnut heist of ’82.” 

Alya threw her head back, her eyes sparkling. Marinette suspected they weren’t tears of mirth though. “That was a great day, wasn’t it?”

“We lived off those doughnuts for _weeks_.”

“My mum was so mad at me!”  She grinned. “But don’t worry, its nothing like that. Can you just… come to see me off on my trip next week? And don’t accept the job until I’m back at least. I’d feel weird knowing I wouldn’t be able to come see you at your last day at the bakery.”

“Of course! They probably won’t want me to start until September anyway. I’ve got plenty of time.” Marinette felt relieved that Alya hadn’t asked her to start republishing her catalogue or reject the job altogether. She couldn’t deal with that level of hurt right now, waiting for orders for clothes she had been so proud of initially, showing how far she was from achieving her dream. Ex-dream, she reminded herself. It was time to move on from that, and start a new chapter. With Alya leaving, it seemed a perfect time.

And if anyone was to pass by the quiet ice cream parlour at that moment, they would see two girls, perched on a metal bench, one girl blue, one red. Or rather, that was how it appeared. For even as the former contemplated the new path her life was taking in quiet acceptance, the latter was already plotting with every ounce of her being, not giving up without a fight.

 

* * *

 

**Paris  - 01/08/1995**

Marinette pulled on a light denim jacket over her usual t-shirt as she stepped out the door of the bakery. The summer heat hadn’t been letting up in the slightest, but at five in the morning and the sky still dark, it was cool enough that an extra layer was definitely required. It wasn’t her favourite outfit to wear, but she hadn’t been able to find several of her preferred outfits in her rush this morning, so had settled for the jeans and denim jacket combination – double denim was, in her opinion, a crime against fashion, but was at least semi-acceptable, and with her best blazer missing, this would have to do.

As she wandered towards the station, she contemplated the day ahead of her. Her parents had given her the day off working at the bakery. Initially, she’d planned to head over to Lovell’s and see if they had any free shifts for her to pick up, not that she particularly needed the money right now. With Alya leaving, she anticipated that her expenditure would drop in parallel with the total loss of her social life. But if she wanted to get her own apartment within the next year or so, it didn’t hurt to have some money set aside for the deposit. That was irrelevant though. It turned out that after two years of working at the store, she technically had never taken a day off. It was against company policy for employees to not utilise their holiday time, and with Marinette up for a new promotion which would alter her contract, she now had two full weeks of holiday time to use up before she accepted her new job upon Alya’s return in September. 

Ducking through a side street, she stopped by the small café where she and Alya had spent many a lazy afternoon chatting about boys, careers, love and life and everything in-between. Some days, they’d laze around, Marinette with fashion magazine, sketching frantically, letting inspiration lead her, Alya usually pouring over a newspaper, with a pair of scissors and a scrapbook, cutting and sticking down articles which jumped out to her as particularly interesting. Sometimes Alya would read out an exposé which she thought was especially good, or Marinette would ask for Alya’s feedback on a more difficult sketch, but often, no more than a few sentences were exchanged between the two of them. They’d grown up in this café, from excitable children sipping scalding hot-chocolate, feeling so very grown up, to ambitious teenagers clawing at dreams which were only _just_ out of reach, to adults, becoming settled in the lives they had chosen for themselves. 

She perched at the counter. Lucille, an eighty-two-year-old woman who had run the café for as long as Marinette could remember, smiled and nodded in greeting. “Morning Marinette. You’re here early. We’re not even _technically_ open yet.” She spoke playfully, and turned to the bench behind her, grabbing two mismatched mugs and placing them down on the counter. 

“Prepping for Alya too? Have we become so predictable?” Marinette teased.

“The day I see one of you girls without the other is the day I give this café over to that god-forsaken land developer to build another ugly high rise.”

“So, when hell freezes over?”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you Marinette.” The old lady winked at the younger girl, and busied herself preparing a hot chocolate and filter coffee in anticipation of Alya’s arrival.

Marinette moved over to the comfy armchair, lit by a small lamp, still needed at this early hour when the gardens and balconies of her home were still cloaked in the comforting blanket of early dawn. Paris was at its best at this time. Only bakers had to rise at this hour, filling the streets with the scent of freshly baked bread, cars and smog blissfully absent, birdsong filling the city. Never mind that much of the birdsong was the squawk of the omnipresent pigeon population, never mind that the grind of the bakery at 5 AM had been haunting Marinette for the past couple of years. On a quiet dawn like this one, she felt like her city was truly her home again. Mornings like this were the reason she had never been able to bring herself to leave Paris.

Lucille finished preparing the drinks, and, handing both over to Marinette, headed into the back of the shop, presumably to continue preparing the patisserie options for the day. Marinette’s parents had been trying to convince the old lady to buy in her cake selection at a slashed price from the Dupain-Cheng bakery for years, to reduce her workload – as the only full-time staff member at the café, she had her work cut out for her, making food, drinks, as well as both opening and closing the café seven days a week, most days a year. But the woman adamantly refused. She had always baked with her late husband, she explained, and the ritual of preparing the recipes they had once written together made her feel like he was still watching over the café even now, more than a decade after his passing. Marinette only had blurry memories of the man, a crooked smile, eyes framed by laughter lines, a thick handlebar moustache which his wife had always made him cover with a repurposed hair net when he made his famous pies, cookies, and doughnuts. The cake selection had been the original attraction of the café to a seven-year-old Marinette and Alya, who had planned a cunning heist to convince the couple to donate their unsold pastries to the mischievous duo, claiming they were famished and were _never_ allowed cakes at home. In retrospect, both of the elderly pair had been fully aware that there was no way the _daughter_ of the Dupain-Cheng bakery would ever be deprived of sweets, but nonetheless, the kind man had donated fresh doughnuts every day for the pair as they wandered home from school. Both girls would sit in the same armchairs where Marinette now found herself, cheeks streaked with sugar.

All had been sure that Lucille would close the café following the loss of her husband to a heart attack twelve years ago, but the indomitable woman decided that the best tribute to her husband’s memory would be to ensure the success of the business they had run together, and even in his absence, the small café thrived. This was helped in no small part by the fact that the year before it had found itself with two very regular customers, and in turn, it became something of a second home to the pair, Lucille a grandmotherly figure who treated Marinette and Alya more like sisters and friends. Sometimes they had bought along others from school: Mylène had accompanied them on a number of occasions, Nathanael had made the occasional appearance in the year he spent mooning after Marinette. But always, _always_ , it was Marinette and Alya.

Lost in thought, Marinette jumped when she realised Alya had at some point joined her in the café, and already sat opposite her, cupping her coffee like a man in a desert clutches a flask of cool water, taking a deep gulp of the steaming contents.

“That’s good stuff.” She sighed contentedly. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lucille!” She called into the back room, a vague affirmation echoing back from its depths.

Next to Alya, sat a large duffel bag, which Marinette recognised from old school camping trips. The bag was nearly as big as Marinette, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if a small child had crawled into it for shelter and become lost in its depths. It’s dull green, rough fabric, splattered with unidentified stains, most of which Marinette could attribute to one hiking disaster or another, contrasted in an unappealing way with the plush red settee on which it had been unceremoniously dumped, and the buckle holding it shut strained as its contents attempted to spill out, mostly unsuccessfully.

“You got enough stuff there Alya?” She laughed, standing and moving over to open the bag, peeking inside. “I suppose you are going away for a month, makes sense to pack a decent amount, but I’m pretty sure other parts of Europe have laundromats too!” She frowned as she noticed a sleeve of her missing pink jacket hanging out of the mouth of the rucksack. “Hey, I was looking for this, when did I give you permission to commandeer my wardrobe?”

“But you have such good fashion sense, Mari!” Alya glanced at Marinette’s double denim ensemble. “Usually, at least.”

“The reason I’m wearing this questionable outfit is _because_ I couldn’t find my jacket! What else of mine do you have? Did you steal my khaki shorts too?”

“I actually have a confession to make.” Alya looked guilty. This worried Marinette. Generally, Alya was proud of her various connived plans, and would nearly never admit to any personal guilt in her exploits, however extravagant. So, for Alya to admit guilt to something meant, even by her standards, she had to have gone above and beyond her usual meddling. 

“…What.” 

“So. This bag isn’t for me. It’s for you.” 

“I’m confused.”

Alya opened her mouth, as if she was going to carry on speaking, before pausing in thought and shaking her head. Reaching into a side pocket of the duffel bag, she pulled out an A3 sized brown envelope, thick enough to nearly qualify as a parcel. She handed it over to Marinette silently, watching her friends face, gauging a reaction.

Marinette, in similar silence, opened the envelope. A small red book fell out onto her lap. She picked it up and opened it, and her own face stared back at her. Her cheeks were a little chubbier, hair a little shorter and pulled up in the dozens of butterfly clips she had favoured back in collegé, but nonetheless, definitely her own face. “This is… _my_ passport?”

“You’re going on this trip, not me.”

“I… I’m still confused. Why? I thought you wanted to see the world before becoming a high-flying journalist or whatever?”

“Well, turns out, I’m actually flying out to Harvard this month to get set up. But I still have this inter-rail pass, and several booked hotels, which I wouldn’t want to go to waste, you get me?” 

“Couldn’t you just sell them to someone else?”

“Honestly Mari, it's more than that. Think of it as… an intervention of sorts?” She took another long sip of her coffee. Marinette, stunned into silence, simply stared at the rucksack once more, its putrid green colour filling her mind, as her stomach began to churn with anxiety. “I’m worried about you. You’re giving up on something you’ve dreamed about your whole life, to settle for a job you already kind of hate. Doing it full time isn’t going to be any better than working part time you know.” 

“I really tried with the fashion thing Alya, you know that!” She couldn't believe Alya was still trying to hold on to Marinette's ambition for her. Giving up had been hard enough, it would be near impossible if Alya refused to accept it.

“Of course, you did! I’m just worried you’re giving up too early is all.”

“It’s been two years with no progress, at what point do I realise I’ve wasted half my life chasing an unachievable dream? Better that I realise it now and focus my time on something I actually have a chance at succeeding with.”

“I just want… just go on the trip, okay? See the world a little. I’ve already spoken to your parents, and they agree. You’ve barely left Paris before, spent half your life in a bakery, the other half on fashion, and I just want you to be _sure_ this is what you want to do before you go and change your whole life plan.”

“I don’t have the time off work. I’ve only got two weeks off at the café, and-” 

“Already sorted. Mylène and Ivan say they can cover the other two weeks at the end of the month, and your parents say they can manage fine at the bakery without you – your uncle’s coming to visit for a bit and he can help relieve some of the workload.”

“Mylène and Ivan? But I haven’t seen them in over a year!”

“Because you withdrew and became a workaholic Mari, not because they’re not your friends anymore. Honestly, everyone has been pretty concerned. Even if it’s just as a holiday, I think you should do this.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before today? I can’t get ready in just an hour!” She jumped up, panicking. She hadn’t even decided if she was going yet, and already she was freaking out about what to pack.

“No problem, your mum was _very_ supportive of the whole plan. This entire bag is filled with stuff we’ve been poaching from your wardrobe over the last week, as well as some maps and general travel supplies. No guidebooks though!”

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me before now? You know how I hate doing stuff last minute.” 

“Exactly. You need to learn to not overthink stuff Mari. Just because something is the logical option, doesn’t mean it’s the best option. Hopefully, this will give you some perspective on stuff generally, as well as being an _awesome_ holiday, which you’re getting for _free_ by the way!” 

Lucille emerged from the back room, carrying a tray of croissants, ready for the morning rush. “Have you told her about your plan yet darling? Oh, never mind, Marinette, your face right now answers my question nice and quickly. Have a croissant sweetheart.” The old woman sat opposite next to Marinette. Marinette felt vaguely like she was being interrogated by the duo, who both sat facing her, looking uncharacteristically solemn. “I agree with Alya, I think this trip could be a good experience for you. See the world you might be missing out on before you reject it out of hand. Take it from an old woman who’s been in Paris for a long time, there’s a lot more than this old dusty city for a girl like you to experience. Enjoy being _young_ for once! You’re an old soul Marinette, but you shouldn’t let that stop you living your life.”

 

* * *

**Turin, Northern Italy – 01/08/1995**

Marinette clambered off the train, hunched under the weight of her backpack. Glancing at her watch, she pulled the itinerary for her trip out a side pocket, searching for a hint as to where she should be going next. “You’re starting in Rome. Just get on this train, and make sure you make the right changes when you get there.” Had been the last words Alya had spoken to her, through the half open window of the cramped carriage Marinette had somehow allowed herself to be talked into boarding 6 hours prior.  Unfortunately, the train had pulled out of the station before Marinette had managed to obtain any more information than that, and the comforting familiarity of her best friend’s face had been switched for a new perspective of Paris, and then for rolling fields and hills, scorched beige by the burning sun. 

Unfortunately for Marinette, despite being trilingual, Italian was not included in her repertoire. “Why couldn’t she have sent me to _London?_ ” She muttered under her breath, half-running through the crowded station in hopes of spotting an arrival and departure board which would tell her where to go. But then again, Alya was fluent in Italian, so likely had designed this trip to start off on a relatively easy note for herself. For Marinette though, she had been thrown into the deep end without a life jacket to help.

Spotting a promising looking sign, she moved further along the bustling corridor, peering upwards hopefully. _Milano Centrale, 12:24, parte dal binario 12._ She might not know Italian, but that was enough information for her to parse that a train, heading to her supposed next stop, would be leaving at 12:24. She glanced once more at her watch. The numbers 12:22 taunted her, and she span on her feet, immediately colliding with a figure who had apparently been passing close by. Both figures fell to the floor, and Marinette jumped back up, horrified. Below her lay a slightly dazed man who seemed around the same age as herself, suitcase discarded next to him and gelled blonde hair dishevelled from the fall. Unfortunately, Marinette was about to miss a train which would leave her stranded in an unknown country for who knew how long, so she neglected all the manners her mother instilled in her growing up, in favour of a half-hearted apology and escape.

“I’m so sorry!” She blurted, before running off in the direction of platform 12, praying to every deity she could think of that the train had been delayed for some reason. 

Arriving at the station to see a chain of carriages sitting idly, apparently in want of a driver, gave Marinette hope that at least one of her chosen gods of three minutes’ prior was looking out for her. This was also when she realised that she had apologised to the man she had half assaulted before in French, so as far as he knew, a small, half Chinese girl had knocked him over, yelled at him in an unknown language, and fled. 

As she was cursing herself for this, she realised her streak of bad luck did not plan on ending, as the same man then entered the carriage, seconds before the doors closed and the train departed from the station, hopefully (although with Marinette’s luck, it would be more of a miracle) to Milan. The man paused, making eye contact with Marinette, before glancing once more around the compartment, noting the lack of available seats everywhere aside from next to her. She cursed once more, and moved her bag in front of her, leaving the seat free for her victim to take, if he so chose.

As the man moved across the carriage and perched gingerly next to her, looking just as uncomfortable as Marinette felt, she reached into her bag, pulling out a small travel phrasebook which Alya had been gracious enough to include.

“Um… koh-meh stai?” She hesitantly asked, hoping she hadn’t grievously injured the man when he fell.

The man smiled back at her. His hair flopped forward slightly, crunchy with hair gel, but clearly having not yet recovered from its impact earlier. “Bene, grazie. E come sta? Come si chiama?”

Shit. Marinette hadn’t got as far as thinking about holding a conversation. She frantically flicked through the phrasebook, before giving up, and handing the book to the man, gesturing that he should point to the French equivalent of what he was trying to communicate.

He laughed glancing at the book. “Scusa se ti chiedo, ma sei francese?”

“Non parlo italiano?” She spoke slowly and carefully, having memorised at least that single phrase on her journey away from Paris.

“Parli Francese?” His eyes sparkled, and she felt like he was making fun of her, but with the language barrier, she could neither be sure of this nor reprimand him if he was. “I’m sorry, I’m teasing. I do speak French, don’t worry.” He switched seamlessly into the other language, and Marinette felt herself flush lightly in annoyance. 

“So, you were just watching me make a fool of myself?”

“I was trying to communicate simply, but you really don’t speak a word of Italian, do you?” His eyes glinted in challenge.

“Well, I’m sorry that when I learned three languages Italian didn’t happen to be one of them. How many languages do you speak?” She accused pointedly.

“Admittedly, just the two.”

She gave a smug smile and raised a single eyebrow, her point proven.

“So, what are the other languages you speak then?”

“English and Chinese. English is useful in the fashion industry, and Chinese because my mum didn’t want me to forget about my heritage, you know?”

“So, you’re interested in fashion?”

“Only when I was younger, I’ve kind of given up on that now. It’s such a competitive industry, and I just wasn’t managing to break into it at all.”

“What do you do now?”

Marinette contemplated refusing to answer. She had no obligation to indulge this stranger, after all. But something about him made her want to tell him about her life, about how disappointed she was with where she'd ended up, everything. She settled for the short answer, however.

“I’m a baker actually. Work in a café in a department store in Paris.”

“Oh, I’m from Paris too! Well, when I was younger at least. My father moved us here when I was younger. Better for his career.” He snorted derisively.

“So where do you live in Italy?” If he was going to be nosy, she would return the favour.

“Milan, I’m just heading home from a fashion shoot.”

“You’re a model then?”

“Depends who you ask. I mostly just work for my father, so it’s really nepotism more than anything else.”

“See, that’s my point. Everyone in fashion knows everyone else. I couldn’t even get a stupid local catalogue off the ground.” Of course he had family in fashion - just Marinette's luck that the first person she met on her trip would be the son of a designer - reminding her of what she was giving up.

“Wow, that’s an ambitious place to start. Most people just go to study it at a university or get a low-level job in a fashion house.”

“I couldn’t leave Paris, and I didn’t manage to get accepted on to any of the courses in the city.”

“That sucks. So, I guess you’re not heading to Milan for the clothing then?”

“Definitely not. Actually, my friend has sent me on a bit of a tour of sorts.”

“Your friend?  What for?” At this, Marinette stopped to think for a moment. How did one explain Alya, all her fiery ambition and ill-advised plans?

“She planned it for herself, but has to head to the US for work, so gave me all of her tickets and travel information. Even packed my bag for me, only told me I was going this morning. She's like that.” She rolled her eyes, still astonished that Alya had managed to plan this and leave her none the wiser.

“And you went?” He looked stunned, frowning slightly. “How long is the trip for?”

“A month.”

“A month?! And you can just drop everything, just like that?”

“Well, most of my time is spent working in my parent’s bakery, so they gave me the time off.”

“Oh, so baking is ridden with nepotism too.” He grinned, and her heart fluttered slightly in her chest. He had a smile like tarnished gold, not bright, but soft, beautiful in a comforting sort of way, that felt like glowing embers on a cold winters day. It fit his demeanour. Not openly charming, more reserved than anything else, but with a mannerism which led her to instinctively trust him, despite only having known the man for twenty minutes.

“Apparently so. I do make a mean éclair though.”

“Intriguing. Don’t suppose you have any of these baked goods with you to share with a new friend?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Alya does have a soft spot for the bakery, chances are she’ll have shoved something edible in here.”

“A bag of mystery. More intriguing still.”

Marinette unbuckled the ugly green backpack and pushed aside the clothing which sat on top, blushing slightly as she realised some of her underwear was visible. Pink briefs patterned with bunnies didn’t exactly scream _international woman of mystery._ It was a testament to model boy’s good character that he paid no attention to her underwear, instead staring eagerly into the bag’s depths.

“Madeleines!”

“A _lot_ of madeleines.” Marinette agreed in shock. A large Tupperware container had sat below her clothes, and once removed the bag material sank into itself despondently, no longer stuffed to the point of splitting but instead much more reasonably packed.

“I guess that explains why you were carrying so much stuff around with you.”

“There is no scenario in which I would ever need this many madeleines.” The box easily contained at least fifty of the small cakes, smooshed together slightly, sticky with sugar, glistening under the dull florescent lighting of the train carriage.

“Except the scenario where you meet a devilishly charming, half Italian boy with a taste for madeleines bordering on a fetish.”

“Wow. That is too much information.” She handed him a cake all the same. “If you’re going to have sex with the cake, please do it after we’ve separated.”

“I would never waste good cake like that. I’m-” He paused to take another bite, and half spat crumbs when he spoke. “Sorry.” Swallowing, he continued. “I’m never normally allowed cake, or sugar, or anything like this. But I don’t think calories consumed when travelling count.”

“Because you’re a model?”

“In part. My father is also quite controlling. He worries about diabetes, and heart disease, and cancer, and… everything really.”

“A hypochondriac? What does your mum think of that?”

“She died actually.”

“Oh no, I’m sor-”

“ _Please._ Please don’t say you’re sorry. I didn’t really know her, she died when I was really young. But it messed up my father, losing his wife so young, and it’s made him a bit overprotective. I do get it, but it means I have to savour opportunities like this,” he gestured to the madeleines, “all the more.”

“And you should savour friendship with beautiful young half-Chinese girls you meet under unfortunate circumstances all the more too.” She teased back, not wanting to dwell on the topic of her train-mate's dead mother, since it was clearly a touchy subject for him.

“Unfortunate circumstances? You gave me free cake and good company, I’d hardly call that unfortunate.”

“I also knocked you over in the station and nearly caused you to miss your train.”

“And I teased you by speaking Italian when I already knew you were French, and you clearly didn’t speak the language. I think we’re even”

“That’s fair. So, you live in Milan then?”

“I kind of live all over now, I travel a lot more for modelling since I started doing it full time.”

“How long have you been modelling?”

“Kind of my whole life, I guess, but since leaving school a couple of years ago it’s become more of a full-time job.”

“That’s really impressive. I wish I was that dedicated to something.”

“You bake though, right? These are really good.”

“I mean, yeah, I work at a bakery, but my mum and dad made these. I just muddle through most of the time. I have experience, but I don’t think I’d say I have a _talent_ for it per se.”

“But do you enjoy it? That’s what matters most.” Marinette was taken aback by how genuinely interested he seemed in her answer. His eyes were wide and attentive, head cocked to one side in a look Marinette could only describe as, well, _wonderment._

Their conversation was interrupted by the intercom announcing their arrival into Rome.

“That was the quickest forty-five minutes of my life!” Marinette exclaimed, disappointed that the journey with the stranger was already coming to an end.

They disembarked from the train together, the model helping Marinette stuff the Tupperware back into her bag – despite having been stored there initially, it seemed particularly reluctant to return to the rucksack’s green canvas depths.

“This was fun!” Despite his ever-constant smile, he seemed subdued compared to how he had been on the train. Glancing nervously around the station, he flinched and straightened his posture upon seeing a slim woman with a thin face, dressed in a black pantsuit, next to a hulking man who was eerily reminiscent of a gorilla. “Have a safe journey, mystery girl.” And with that, her companion winked, and disappeared into the swarm of tourists which had flooded the station.

“Wait!” As he disappeared, Marinette attempted to call out to him, before realising it was futile. Trying to pick out any one individual in the sea of faces which surrounded her was a herculean task. 

_I never even got his name._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! this is my new fic - its going to be a whistlestop tour of Europe, all through the eyes of Marinette, and her mysterious unidentified love interest - no prizes for guessing who that is! please let me know if you like it - even just a kudos means a lot, and lets me know people are interested in reading (and i LIVE for comments) - hope you enjoy! Holly x


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette makes some new friends.

**Chapter Two.**

 

* * *

 

**Rome, Italy  – 01/08/1995**

Emerging into the brutal glare of the evening Roman sun with just a sunhat for protection was like jumping into the crater of Vesuvius wearing factor-a-million sunscreen - horrifically uncomfortable and a futile effort. Marinette cursed the bulky hat which she had been peddled by a kind looking old-man, as she had stepped off the train. She had realised that she had only Francs with her in her handbag, useless in Italy. Her Italian Lira was crumpled at the bottom of her rucksack, and she was loath to unpack half of its contents to reach the bottom in a public space. The man had been kind enough to sell her the hat for just fifty Francs, a pittance in Paris, and all but useless in Italy. Or at least, she had thought it was kindness at the time. Now, as she walked across the open square outside the train station, she realised the hat mostly just marked her as a tourist, easy prey for the swarms of pickpocketing children she could see hanging out by the bus stop. Similar groups existed in Paris, and she knew to steer well clear of them there, but then in Paris, she knew where she was going, and spoke the language. Right now, she felt small, and vulnerable, and wanted to return to the safety of the train station, where even with the language barrier, everything felt familiar. Trains stations were like a universal constant everywhere, after all. But cities. Cities were always new and disorienting. They were alive. 

She did quite like the hat though. 

Pausing her aimless wandering to throw her weary body back onto a nearby bench, she pulled out a map and the envelope from Alya, already dog-eared from her pouring over it dozens of times on the journey.

 _Hey Marinette,_

_I hope you don’t hate me as you read this – I really hope you haven’t stormed away from the station altogether._

_You should be on the train right now, assuming I **did** manage to convince you._

_I know I was planning this trip for months, but the truth is, I think you need it more than me. After all, I’m going to travel the world as a jet-setting international journalist at some point anyway – I don’t mind putting it off for a few years. But you’re about to settle down at the department store – and I don’t know how many opportunities Lowe’s will give you to just explore – I’m pretty sure their sphere of influence is limited to the Parisian Bourgeoisie (no offence)._

_I’ve enclosed some Italian Lira, since I presume you haven’t had time to visit a currency exchange centre yet, as well as a few thousand Francs for you to convert when you arrive in different countries. I’ve also included information of the hotels I booked – unfortunately, I booked them all in my name. It’s worth trying to see if they’ll let you stay anyway –but I can’t promise anything. There should be plenty of youth hostels and the like though, so I’m not **too** worried about you becoming homeless. _

_Love you Mari. Make sure you have a great trip on my behalf! And if nothing else – be spontaneous._

_A x_

The letter was typical of Alya – the sentiment behind it was kind, and supportive, but the advice was all but useless. What did she mean, _be spontaneous?_ She was travelling on a holiday where all her travel was planned for her – hardly spur-of-the-moment. Marinette was definitely excited for the tourist opportunity – Tom and Sabine rarely left Paris, and only left France to visit relatives in China, so Marinette had seen very little of the rest of Europe growing up. That didn’t mean she was about to go hook up with every cute Italian guy who looked her way just because Alya worried she was too practical with her decisions.

Half-Italian models, on the other hand? 

She snorted, laughing at herself – one day of travelling wasn’t _quite_ enough to cause her to undergo a total personality shift. Alya would be so disappointed. But he had been very charming – if everyone she met in Italy was like him, she wouldn’t find it hard to fall in love with the country.

Looking around, however, she was again taken aback by how _open_ it all seemed. Paris seemed so stuffy in comparison. Back home, she was used to the streets being narrow, buildings almost swallowing the length of the roads in their shadow. But here, the sun seemed to be a key part of the architecture. Everywhere was bathed in light, the ground dusty and dry, streets open to the onslaught of the burn. And the Romans seemed to embrace it. Marinette had always heard that Parisian women were considered some of the most fashionable in Europe, but the Roman women put her city to shame. All around, women wearing black, skin-tight dresses and heels higher than Marinette could ever dream of walking in strolled elegantly across the cobbled stonework beneath their feet. Comfort seemed their lowest priority – Marinette could only imagine how hot their dark attire must grow under the burning Rome sun. Their gaze was masked by their sunglasses, but despite this, she imagined their stare judging her, eyeing her shabby denim jacket (which she had forgotten to change out of on the train, and her worn out converse. She had thought dressing practically would help her fit in, but she stuck out like a sore thumb.

Realising that she couldn’t sit outside the train station forever, she shook herself out of her reverie, and opened the shiny new paper map Alya had so kindly included in her pack. 

Then she began to panic.

She had never given maps much thought before, and it turned out Rome was _much_ bigger than she realised – and had several different train stations. And her map did not include many place names.

Setting her jaw, she closed the map, and took a deep breath. This was fine. If she couldn’t find the train station on the map, all she had to do was find one of the locations which _was_ on the map. 

Looking around, she spotted several signs of which she could at least _infer_ the meaning, with a reasonable level of confidence. One sign directed her to a nearby university (probably), while another, pointing in the opposite direction, read only ‘Colosseum’. She pondered the two options for a moment – one most definitely led to some kind of academic institution, where, hopefully, she would find someone who spoke French. The alternative option was heading to the Colosseum of Rome – a tourist hotspot, for sure. Tourists, she decided, were the best option between the two.

 

* * *

  
**Colosseum, Rome, Italy  – 01/08/1995**

Tourists were the _worst._

So far, Marinette had: been half forced into three tourist groups, narrowly escaping with her purse intact (metaphorically); been targeted by a suspicious looking man who distracted her with flashy trinkets while his friend attempted to pick her pocket, escaping with her purse intact (literally), and been ignored by no less than _seven_ groups speaking either French or English. Turns out, hot weather and extortionate entry prices made people _mean._

To make things worse, the sun was beginning to set, and the tourists were slowly beginning to disperse. Not only did this mean that she would have fewer people to ask for help (although she was steadily beginning to write off that plan), but the hotels would be filling up. She didn’t know when check-in was for Alya’s hotel, but she imagined midnight would be pushing it – she needed to find help, and quickly.

At least she knew where she was now, she supposed – it was hardly difficult to find the Colosseum on a map. Looking up at it, even behind layers of fences, security, and identically clad tourist groups, she felt awe. It was a crumbling testament to a culture long gone, its arches still remarkably intact considering the millennia which had passed since its construction. She cursed not buying a disposable camera with the money Alya had left her, but realised that the light was low enough now that the picture would have no chance of developing anyway. 

A breeze drifting past drew out a shiver, and she realised that it was growing cooler and she was no closer to finding somewhere to stay. 

She had seen nowhere hopeful between the Colosseum and the train station (at least, nowhere in her price range), so ruled that out as an area to search. Writing off Alya’s hotel also, deciding to search for it tomorrow instead, she decided to find a youth hostel, despite her doubts. But, having no better plan, she settled her resolve, picked a direction opposing the one from where she had come, and walked.

Half an hour later, shivering and no closer to finding somewhere to sleep, she ducked into a coffee shop, marked with an unassuming sign reading _La Coccinella_ , in search of temporary refuge and warmth. Considering how hot Rome had been in the day, it had dropped cool remarkably quickly – she wondered whether this was normal, or whether she had arrived on a particularly unlucky day. After all, in Paris in the summer, it felt like the heat never dissipated. The air only had to begin to cool at night before the sun would rise and warm it once more. But then, Rome was more open than Paris – perhaps the narrow streets at home aided in retention of heat – like a concrete blanket enveloping the city.

But Rome was vulnerable, and exposed. Right now, so was Marinette. And all she wanted was a hot chocolate to warm her up.

However, the boy at the counter who seemed to barely speak Italian, if his grunts were anything to go by, let alone French (or English, or Chinese – she tried), did not seem willing to grant her one request.

“Hot chocolate?” She tried again, even throwing out the word for chocolate in Dutch, having spent a year on the language at school, and finding herself remarkably inept at it. “Chocola?”

Another blank stare. The boy pointed at a muffin, and fixed her with a questioning look.

 “No, not- eugh.” Her will dissolved. “Coffee?”

Comprehension seemed to light up the boy’s lifeless eyes, and he nodded, and busied himself making… something. Coffee, Marinette assumed. She wasn’t the biggest fan of the bitter beverage, preferring her drinks sickly sweet and tooth-rotting, but right now, she’d accept anything warm to counter her shivering.

At least, that was what she thought, until she was served with the smallest cup of coffee she’d ever seen – it looked more suited to a doll café than a full sized one. And, taking a sip, she recoiled and shuddered – it was sour and bitter to the point of being intolerable. The café in the department store used shots of coffee like this in their drinks, diluted by milk or water, to form full-sized beverages. But apparently, in Italy, it was commonplace to serve it as a drink on its own. Or someone was pranking her. Or poisoning her. Probably the sullen barista.

“Alya would have known about this.” Marinette scorned herself. Alya, world cultured and prepared, wouldn’t have spent four hours wandering lost around Rome, with nothing to show for it but aching legs, a sore back from her rucksack, and an atrocious aftertaste left in her mouth. If nothing else, this proved that Marinette was more suited to life at home– she knew how to function as a human in Paris, at least.

A short woman with a bright red pixie cut and a beaming smile suddenly broke Marinette’s train of self-pity, sitting immediately next to her at the counter, and pushing a large mug towards her. It dwarfed the tiny devil-drink in its shadow.

“Hi! Sorry if this is presumptuous, but I thought you might prefer something sweeter – you didn’t really seem to be enjoying the caffé – sorry, I mean espresso,” she spoke in a single breath of perfect English, aside from the single Italian interlude, words layering over each other with haste.

“Oh, um, thanks,” she replied hesitantly, drawing the warm vessel to her lips and taking a tentative sip. Sweetness exploded over her tongue, and she sighed and took a deeper gulp, half scalding her throat and mouth in the process.

“Careful! It’s still hot!” Her companion exclaimed, startling blue eyes widening further. “I’m glad you like it though!” She added cheekily.

“This is wonderful – what is it?” Marinette exhaled between gulps.

“A mocha latte! Think of it like hot chocolate that still gives you a sweet caffeine hit,” she laughed.

“I was actually trying to order a hot chocolate, but I really don’t speak any Italian at all, so I think I was just being confusing.” She decided the barista had not been trying to poison her out of some kind of petty revenge.

“Oh, yeah, Ant is my partner’s nephew.” She gestured to the teen barista who was now skulking in the corner flicking through a comic book, pointedly ignoring the two women sharing the room with him. “He’s a good kid – usually,” she added under her breath, “but he isn’t the hardest worker – I think inferring a drink order from context would probably be pushing him a little outside his comfort zone.”

“Ant?”

“Short for Antonio – oh, but don’t call him Ant to his face – Plagg came up with the nickname, and he _hates_ it – thinks its degrading, just because puberty hasn’t been kind to him in the height department.”

“That’s an English nickname though, right? I thought he didn’t speak English?”

“Why would you – did you try to order in English too? I assumed you’d just tried French!” She frowned and turned towards the boy, who, having followed the turn of the conversation, was now attempting to sneak into the back room unnoticed. “I’ve told you not to drive tourists away! They’re a key demographic, and it's rude to pretend you don’t understand them, _and_ it makes the shop look bad too!” A grumbled, inaudible reply was Ant’s only response, as he slinked away. Marinette felt vindicated that her original suspicion of her poisoning had been at least half correct.

“Sorry.” The woman sighed, turning back to Marinette. He loves to aggravate tourists – located so close to the Colosseum, we get a lot of noisy groups, and admittedly they can be a little disruptive, _but-”_ and she raised her voice in the direction of the absentee teen “ _that’s no reason to bully nice girls trying to order a hot drink_!”

“You live here?”

“Well not _here_ here, that would be a pain – there’s only the back room and kitchen really, all upstairs is just office space.” She nodded, “But yeah, close enough – it’s about a twenty-minute walk across the river.”

“The river?”

“The one on the other side of the building?”

She shook her head to indicate her ignorance. “I haven’t been in Rome that long, and I’ve spent most of that time lost. I haven’t really got to grasp with the area yet.”

Tikki was shocked, and began to describe the area. Apparently, the river was called the Tiber, and was an integral part of the city, Rome having been formed along its shores thousands of years ago.

The princes Romulus and Remus had been abandoned by the water’s edge, and had been saved by the god Tiberinus, Tikki explained. The two boys had been fed by a wolf who nursed them, before being raised by a shepherd. Eventually, upon Remus being arrested, the boys met their true father, who had abandoned them for dead. They killed their tyrannical father to restore their grandfather to the throne, but the bloodshed did not end here. 

Both wished to establish their own city – one Rome, the other Reme, named after themselves. But they could agree on neither name nor location, and, having prayed for divine approval, both believed they had obtained it for themselves. Remus was murdered by Romulus, and thus the city of Rome was born.

Marinette presumed this was merely mythology, but Tikki told the story with such solemnity and gravity that she couldn’t help but imagine it was true – that the city she found herself in had been born from such acts of blood and betrayal. She broke from her mental tangent to realise Tikki was still speaking and had moved on to describe a more geographical approach to the city. Marinette apologetically interrupted the explanation to admit she had been distracted by the tale and was none the wiser as to her current location.

“Ah, you’ll figure it out soon enough. The streets are kind of confusing, but stick to the main roads and you should be fine. How long have you been here? I assume your hotel is nearby if you’re here this late?” 

“Oh, um.” She glanced down at her watch, recoiling at the time blinking up at her. 10:30 already. “About six hours? And I don’t know, I’m not sure where I’m staying yet – do you know if there are any hostels nearby that might have space?”

The pitying look the petite woman fixed her with answered her question without words. “Not at this time, and especially not in summer. You’d be lucky to find an empty bench to settle on.” 

Apparently, Marinette must have looked even more desolate than she felt, because the woman quickly added. “I have a spare sofa if you need somewhere to sleep though!”

“Oh no, I’ll be okay-” 

But apparently, the woman had already made up her mind, and twenty minutes later, Marinette found herself approaching a tiny shuttered apartment located on the top floor of a rickety building bordering the quaintest piazza imaginable – picture book perfect.

And once again, she had forgotten to ask the woman’s name.  This was becoming a bad habit.

 

* * *

 

**Piazza de Mercanti, Rome, Italy  – 01/08/1995**

“Tikki!” The woman announced, when Marinette realised at least this time, her anonymous companion hadn’t disappeared into a crowd, and she could actually ask her name.

“Tikki?”

“Tikki!” The woman nodded. “Apparently, it means happiness. My mother was very optimistic for my future.”

“And you mentioned a partner – um – Plagg?”

“Yep. Like plague.”

“Oh. That’s… unique?”

“Just wait until you meet Plagg – _unique_ will take on a whole new meaning.”

Marinette merely nodded – she hadn’t had a chance to protest her being taken in by Tikki earlier, but now that she was here she felt slightly uncomfortable. She knew that it was a lot better than sleeping on the streets in a strange city, but she couldn’t help but feel like she was intruding on the woman’s privacy.

She perched herself on the edge of a battered chair shoved up against an open folding table, and occupied her thoughts by studying the small apartment as Tikki busied herself preparing two mugs of hot chocolate – apparently, Plagg would be home soon also, but wouldn’t touch sweet food or drink with a ten-foot pole.

It was clear that Tikki and the mysterious Plagg weren’t all that concerned about tidying – the amount of clutter in the apartment could rival Marinette’s own bedroom. The normal mess of scattered clothes and unwashed dishes seemed incongruous with the carefully styled disorder of the walls. Every available vertical surface was scattered with photographs. Polaroids haphazardly coated the kitchen linoleum, the discoloured, peeling wallpaper of the small living area was barely visible below printed snapshots of all styles – from black and white, artistic photographs which had clearly been professionally developed, to blurry, off-centre pictures of a grinning couple, plainly taken using a disposable camera held backwards. Squinting, Marinette recognised the woman in these pictures as a younger Tikki – her hair long, and black, and face absent of the thick glasses she had been wearing today, but wide blue eyes rendered her easily identified. Marinette assumed the other figure was Plagg, then. His startlingly green eyes reminded her of the model she had met just that morning – although his were much darker, while the eyes in the photograph were almost luminescent. They contrasted with his dark skin and darker hair, half flopped over his left eye. He was devastatingly attractive, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the ridiculous faces he was pulling in every picture Marinette where he featured. 

“Yeah, he’s a character.” Tikki smiled and handed Marinette a mug, having wandered back into the room and catching Marinette staring at the photos.

“Yeah.” She absent-mindedly agreed, before realising that Tikki might not appreciate a complete stranger creeping on her photos with her boyfriend. Blushing wildly, she continued, “Sorry for looking at your- I didn’t mean to intrude- they’re really good photographs!”

“Oh, it’s no problem – I wouldn’t put them up if I wanted them to be private! That’s what photo albums are for after all.” The woman chirped in her reassuring way. Marinette was again taken aback at how one person could be so comforting to be around. Just the tone of her voice was like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

“So, is Plagg a photographer then?” If Tikki ran the coffee shop, Marinette presumed that the photographs were how her partner made his living.

“Oh no, I’m the photographer! Plagg tries, bless him, but as you can see-” she gestured to the blurry self-portrait Marinette had been studying “-it’s not really his forte. He likes pictures with both of us in – not ideal for a photographer!” Giggling, she moved over to the opposite wall. “These are mine!”

True to form, the photos on this wall were much more in focus, and had a certain atmosphere to them which betrayed the talent of the one who captured them. They mostly consisted of portraits of people – many taken candidly. Marinette recognised the outside of _La Coccinella_ in a few of them. Others were clearly taken from the small balcony of the apartment. The piazza outside was blossoming in spring in some, in others barren of plants, and beautiful in the starkness of the stonework of the buildings, framed by blank trellises and brown, sleeping, branches.

“I like living opposite a restaurant-,” Tikki gestured to the trellised building, “– you get to see a lot of people come and go – and I like to study people.”

Marinette had remembered seeing several families milling around tables outside a house opposite, the house covered in greenery so thick the stonework beneath was scarcely visible – she hadn’t realised that it had been a business, looking as homey as it did. “It seemed pretty busy earlier, is it nice there?” She asked, contemplating stopping by the next day to grab a bite to eat – she couldn’t justify going to _Rome_ and eating at a chain restaurant.

“Yeah, it’s lovely – very traditional. Very local too, fortunately. We get a lot of tourists in _La Coccinella,_ so it’s nice to have a place to go which is more private.”

“Oh, I’ll find somewhere else if they’d prefer not to have tourists stomping through!” Marinette quickly added.

“Don’t worry about that! Just don’t go writing about it in any travel journals! We’d prefer to keep it as our own secret hole in the wall,” she winked.

“Definitely not. I’m a _terrible_ writer. But these photos are amazing! Do you work professionally as a photographer then?”

“I take jobs here and there, along with working at _La Coccinella,”_ Tikki said, somewhat vaguely in Marinette’s opinion. Tikki clearly was an aspiring photographer then, and filled out her time working in the coffee shop while she pursued her true interest. Not entirely unlike Marinette – an artist crippled by the limitations of their industries. The difference being, that Tikki clearly had actual talent – and was getting small jobs to support that – while Marinette had more ambition than skill, and had taken far too long to realise that. 

“How long have you had the coffee shop?” She enquired, wondering how long Tikki had been balancing her two jobs for.

“Five years or so, give or take? Plagg technically co-owns it, but it’s my project, really. He just wants to write.”

“Write?”

“Hmm.” Tikki absent-mindedly agreed, checking her watch. “All sorts – he should really be back by now.” Even as she spoke, the door threw open, and a tornado personified flew through the room.

 

* * *

They say speak of the devil and he shall appear, and, Marinette mused, Plagg was certainly not far off the mark regarding demonic nature. The man was a unique mix of affable and disinterested, self-interested to a fault, except where his partner was concerned. When Tikki spoke, he fell uncharacteristically quiet, attentive and respectful and so, _so_ obviously head over heels in love.

The two acted as foils to each other, Marinette contemplated later, as she lay curled up on the sofa Tikki had made up so cosy it was nearly excessive. There had been far too many pillows initially, leaving little room for her to sleep, but Plagg had quickly rectified that. The man had been remarkably accommodating to the fact that a random girl was sleeping in his apartment at the bequest of his fiery girlfriend – supporting Marinette’s hunch that Tikki did this frequently. She definitely seemed like a social butterfly – or a social ladybug, if the name of her coffee shop was any indication.

Plagg had thrown half the pillows onto the floor, chiding Tikki’s over-helpful nature. “The girl only needs two for her head – we’re making her sleep on a comfortable sofa, not on a granite slab!” There they still lay – Marinette supposed on the off chance she had a restless night and managed to throw herself out of the depths of the sofa cushions, at least she would have a comfortable landing – she might not even wake up, such was the density of cushioning. The man had even lent her an old t-shirt to sleep in. Marinette had searched through her bag for pyjamas, and upon pulling out a skimpy nightdress, had cursed Alya in three languages, plus several phrases she’d picked up during her half-hour exposure to Plagg. She knew her best friend wanted her to be spontaneous, but that didn’t involve seducing half of Europe.

Fortunately, the couple had seen the humour in the situation. Once they were both there, Marinette had taken the opportunity to explain how she had ended up briefly homeless in her first independent foray into a foreign country, and they’d been mostly impressed (or at least, Tikki had – Plagg mostly just wanted to hear more stories about Alya – apparently, anyone who spent their friend spontaneously interrailing was a fascinating character. She was pretty sure he’d been scribbling notes as she spoke. 

If you’d told Marinette that morning, as she pulled on her mismatched denim, and headed to wave off her best friend on a month-long trip, that she would end her day in Rome, in a stranger’s apartment, having made two (three?) new friends, she would have nearly broken down with the stress of the unknown.

But lying there under the warmth of the woollen throw she’d grabbed from a rickety cupboard, hearing the whirr of the refrigerator in the open kitchen, she finally took a breath, and then another, until the only thought in her mind was her steady breathing, and eventually, no thought at all.

 

* * *

 

**La Coccinella, Rome, Italy – 02/08/1995**

 

“That’s it, keep at it.”

As Plagg kneaded the misshapen ball of lumpy dough, and Tikki hovered around him anxiously, Marinette wondered how she’d ended up baking even _here_. But Tikki and Plagg had been so _excited_ when they’d learned she was a baker by trade, and had asked her to teach them to make some cakes and breads for _La Coccinella_ , and she couldn’t say no – they had let her stay for free after all. And it was kind of calming to stand in the cool, shaded kitchen of the shop, before the sun had even fully risen, and guide her new friends through the familiar routine of baking. It certainly made her feel more comfortable around them; before, the two had seemed nearly ethereal, so inimitable were their personalities. Now, seeing their total incompetence at something which was nearly instinctive to herself, they seemed much more human. 

“Is it done yet?” Plagg whined, having already passed the task to Tikki – the man had a shockingly short attention span, and had been complaining about the lengthy process for nearly its entire duration. Unfortunately for him, Tikki was meticulous, and incredibly pedantic when it came to following Marinette’s instruction to a T. And so it had been for the past hour. Some slightly singed cookies already sat on the side. Marinette had wanted to start off easy, and what could be more simple and essential to a coffee shop than cookies, she didn’t know. However, both had been determined that bread was the obvious next step, despite Marinette’s explaining that bread was not normal café fare, unless they hoped to construct sandwiches (but both had assured her they did not – although Plagg had seemed tempted by the thought of a grilled cheese).

“No, too much!” Marinette hastily moved Tikki’s clenched fists away from the dough, and guided her kneading, loosening her grip and saving the dough from a violent pummelling. “You’ve got to be gentle with it – you’re trying to trap air in the dough, not tenderise a slab of meat.”

Abashed, Tikki switched tack, now treating the dough as reverently as one might treat a priceless artefact in a museum. “Like this?”

“Not bad, a little harder perhaps, just don’t overwork it,” Marinette confirmed – it was better that she kneaded it slightly too gently than far too hard – a dense loaf had its uses, a crumbly loaf would serve as nothing more than breadcrumbs for the birds.

A couple of hours later, they had several loaves, slightly too browned, and far too dense for use for anything other than toasting, or eating plain, but successful loaves all the same.

“I think they look pretty good.” Plagg looked far too self-satisfied considering it was Tikki who had put most of the work in. Then, considering how incompetent Plagg had been when they first started baking, it was possible this was the first time he had ever cooked anything for himself – explaining his smug attitude.

Tikki looked a little more doubtful. “Can we actually _eat_ them though?”

Before Marinette could reassure the pair that the bread would be fine to eat – it was pretty hard to go wrong with bread, after all - Plagg was already speaking.

“Ant! Get in here.” The addressed teenager wandered into the room, looking as bored as he had the previous evening – apparently, it was his natural expression. “We need you to test- eat some of this.”

Raising one eyebrow in what Marinette assumed was acquiescence, he grabbed a thick slab of bread, and took a none too cautious bite out of it. Marinette admired his bravery, if nothing else.

Upon seeing his nephew alive and well, and not choking to death on any raw dough, Plagg also grabbed a slice, and took an equally large chunk out of it. Tikki, less trusting, warily nibbled. “This is good!” she exclaimed, surprised. 

“It’s hard to go wrong with bread.” Marinette agreed.

“I’m not sure if we can use it in the shop though,” Tikki added doubtfully. “It’s a little chewy, although I suppose we could serve it as toast.”

“Oh, I made an extra couple of loaves while you guys were kneading, you can use those if you need.” She had been concerned at the waste of ingredients – Plagg seemed determined to utilise every particle of flour he could find – and thought it might be good to have some as a back-up, if Tikki was really that determined to serve the bread in the shop. 

Tikki tried a nibble of one of Marinette’s loaves. Her eyes widened in astonishment.  “Woah. This is _really_ good.” 

“Yeah, you’ve got a real talent,” Plagg added, as Tikki snatched the loaf off him before he demolished half of it.

“Thanks.” Marinette felt slightly cold. But also, she couldn’t deny the rush from total strangers praising her baking – normally, only her friends and family, or customers at the department store, ate her creations. This was different – these people had no real reason to compliment her.

“I can see why you’re a baker!” Tikki, grinning, threw an arm around her shoulder, despite Marinette being nearly half a foot taller than the petite woman.

“I don’t know – talent is only half the story. Look at me.” Plagg frowned slightly. “You seem happy when you bake – but you don’t look happy to be praised on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a writer – but I can’t write to save my life. But I like to tell stories, so I focus on that, and my editor irons out the kinks. Just because you’re talented at something doesn’t mean it’s what you want to do – just as the absence of talent doesn’t mean there isn’t passion there, you get me?”

“You write?”

“All sorts. I use a pseudonym though, so don’t think you can go to a bookshop and look for my name. Tikki’s the only one who knows who I really am.”

“Why?”

“I like to take a lot of my characters from real life. We both like to observe people. She likes to do character studies in photographs – I prefer words. It’s part of why the coffee shop is so good for both of us – gives us a place to observe, but also provides an income.”

“You never work here though!” Tikki exclaimed, outraged.

“Well, you can hardly expect a _successful author_ such as myself to dirty his hands making _coffee.”_ He said in disgust. She thought he was joking – but then, knowing Plagg, she decided it was best to assume he was serious in everything he said – that way, there were fewer surprises. “But anyway, people tend to be less offended if they don’t realise you’re taking their traits – good _and_ bad – to build new characters. Plus, people would be more on guard around me.”

“He’s manipulative, is what he means,” Tikki explained.

“But I do it so well.” He grinned, pulling the smaller woman into an embrace. Embarrassed, Marinette turned away from the couple, leaving them to their semi-public displays of affection, and busied herself tidying up the baking equipment from their busy morning. Suddenly, she noticed the cookies from their first attempt seemed to have mysteriously disappeared.

“Did either of you guys move the cookies?” She asked, still awkwardly avoiding turning around.

The resolute silence from Tikki, and laughter from Plagg, seemed to answer her question. Apparently, the older woman had a serious sweet tooth. She’d have to be more careful as to where she left sweets from now on.

She shook her head. She wouldn’t be here much longer, so that was irrelevant. Today she’d go and find a hotel to stay in, and stop couch surfing with strangers. She needed to stop thinking about the coffee shop as if she was working here – this was only a pit stop.

However, Tikki interrupted her self-lecture before she could truly convince herself to leave. “Would you mind staying here another night or two before you move on? You’re not going to Milan quite yet are you?” Marinette shook her head in confirmation. “Great! Can you teach us to make muffins next? We buy them in right now, but the bakery we use is _so_ expensive – it’d be good if we could get Ant in on this too – the kid is here enough, he may as well make himself useful. He’s a useless barista, but maybe baking will be his forte.”

And with that, Marinette found herself with a place to stay for the rest of her duration in Rome.

 

* * *

 

**Cimitero Acattolico, Rome, Italy  – 03/08/1995**

 

To her left, Tikki was preoccupied with trying to adjust the settings on her camera to capture the sun as it set over the trees edging the empty cemetery. To her right, Plagg was scribbling down words, perhaps to practice his descriptive writing for a new work, but possibly in an attempt to look busy. She couldn’t be sure either way. Both had been insistent she visit before she left the city tomorrow, however, and as she had spent the last couple of days baking her heart out in _La Coccinella,_ as well as briefly visiting the Colosseum once more. But finding it as busy as it had been on her first night, and far harder to bare in the scorching midday sun, she had stayed only long enough to take a few photos for Alya using her new camera borrowed from Tikki. The woman had even developed one for Marinette to send as a postcard to her friend, assuring her of her continued alive status. But now, she was sticking to less mainstream tourist spots – this graveyard being one of them. 

It was beautiful, that was undeniable. Packed with graves, all harsh slabs of stone marked with unknown names, scarcely an inch of the ground was bare. Everywhere commemorated some long-dead soul.

It was peaceful, which was more surprising to Marinette. Tikki had told her that sometimes tour groups liked to come and take pictures among the dense foliage and elegant statues marking the graves, but apparently, they had stumbled upon an accidental quiet night. It was still a lesser known tourist attraction compared to the Colosseum and the Pantheon, which drew in crowds like moths to a flame, but was growing in popularity. She flicked through a leaflet she had picked up on the way in, wanting something to keep as a memento. Both Tikki and Plagg had seemed uninterested, however. Marinette presumed they came here fairly frequently, from the way they had both confidently strolled towards this spot. She left them to their respective occupations, and decided to look around the graveyard. 

According to the leaflet, the cemetery was the final resting place of any foreign guest to Rome who had the misfortune to die during their visit. The unofficial local name, Tikki had told her, was the Protestant cemetery, seeing as any Catholics would be quickly transported to the Vatican City for their burial. Apparently, however, this was inaccurate, as the cemetery was a melting pot of people of all faiths (Catholics aside, of course). Behind the cemetery, Marinette noticed, was a large pyramid, and a quick flick through the leaflet informed her that it was the Pyramid of Cestius, an Egyptian style pyramid incorporated into the city’s fortifications. It seemed surreal to see a pyramid in the middle of Rome, but then, the graveyard itself was just as surreal – a haven of greenery within the seemingly endless stonework and bustle of the surrounding city. 

She noticed one grave – nothing more than a slab on the ground – which was engraved with a familiar name.

_“Nothing of him that doth fade,_

_But doth suffer a sea. Change,_

_Into something rich and strange.”_

She recalled learning that Percy Shelley had died in a shipwreck – leaving his even more famous wife a widow – and the epitaph struck her not as that of mourning, but instead hopeful. An appropriately gothic ending; in death, he warped into something new and strange. Perhaps that was not death at all.

_“Meow.”_

She blinked. 

_“Meowwwwwww.”_

In her contemplation, she had failed to notice a cat sat on the grave, mewing at her. He was black all over, except for his bright green eyes, indistinguishable from Plagg’s. If Plagg was a cat, Marinette decided, he would look identical to this. It sat perfectly neatly, seeming to be waiting for something. She had noticed several cats throughout the graveyard, all marked with tags from the neighbouring shelter, which allowed the animals to wander freely. However, this one was untagged, and seemed to have fixated on Marinette.

She hesitated a step to the right.

The cat followed. 

She moved to the neighbouring grave.

The cat sat on the headstone.

Eventually, she accepted her fate, and she and her newly acquired shadow explored the graveyard together.

Feathers drew her eye, and Marinette and the cat found themselves drawn to a statue of an angel, weeping over a grave, arms thrown forward in the agony of mourning. Marinette found her heart twinge slightly, and she stood there, staring at the statue, fixated. It was white stone, in a style reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David, but far more worn from its exposed position to nature. She found herself transfixed not by the angel itself, however, but by the drape of its fabric, the detail in the feathering of its wings.

Almost on instinct, she drew for a small sketchbook out of her bag. She couldn’t justify why she still carried it – no longer did she stop in the street to note down details of particularly interesting outfits – but nevertheless, she couldn’t bring herself to leave it behind.  It was like a comfort blanket in a way. She’d carried a notebook of some kind with her since childhood, and it felt almost like a betrayal to abandon it, even as she abandoned design. She justified it with the usefulness of always having paper and a pencil to hand – never was she caught needing to note down an address or phone number with nothing to write on – but she knew this was only half the truth.

Hesitantly, she began to sketch a feather. Not in the style she had once drawn feathers with at home – only an embellishment to an outfit, usually that of a peacock or similarly flashy animal. But soft and downy, yet broad and reaching; feathers of an angel’s wings.

An hour later, this is how Plagg and Tikki found her. Sketching frantically, like one possessed, a small dark cat curled quietly next to her. In the sunset drenched shadow of an ageless angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, another chapter here! Please let me know if you like it - comments on writing style are especially appreciated (good and bad!). - Holly

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I've started a new fic - ive got a decent amount written already, and it's all planned out, so i'll aim to update fairly regularly if people like it! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think - I'm not used to writing travel stories so this is fairly ambitious to me, so any feedback would be great! :D Lots of love - Holly


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